“Avānweh was no longer safe for us, Jidi. Your plan worked for the most part. The marsh-puppeteers were bound to those you doubted. But we were ambushed at the Qadir Selassin.”
“He’ll live?” It sounded as if Kasraman spoke from the bottom of a well.
“He’ll live,” Wolfram replied. “I’ll fit the prosthetics tonight while he sleeps.”
“There was nothing to be done about…?” Mēdēya’s voice was colored with concern.
“Had we a Nilvedic healer, access to a Sēq Differential Bath, or a Rejuvenation Frame, then perhaps yes.” Wolfram sounded frustrated. “I’ve done what I can for him.”
“Thank you, Wolfram,” Mēdēya said. “You have saved the Asrahn’s life.”
“Just as I saved Thufan’s,” the old witch said bitterly.
“For how long?” Kasraman’s tone was bitter. “We may have lost everything this time.”
“Your father has united many under his colors,” Mēdēya shot back. “The others don’t matter. Let them squawk and threaten. The Asrahn has destiny on his side.”
“If he remains Asrahn,” Kasraman muttered. “There’ll be a vote of no confidence in Father’s leadership, followed by an investigation on events so public we couldn’t bury them in gold if we tried.”
“This is destiny,” Mēdēya spat. “It has been foretold!”
“Has it? Personally, I’ve always hoped for more,” Wolfram said. “The Asrahn has ever interpreted the Weaver’s predictions to his own liking. I fear that we’re seeing the truth of it now.”
“What did they say?” Kasraman asked. “Father has never spoken of it in detail.”
“I was there and heard the words. You will know power, though for the children there will be naught, for you are the harbinger of the Thrice Awakened, who will both do and undo all you strive for. There was more, much of which has come to pass. I fear we are on a slide downward from which there will be no return, if the remainder of the oracle’s words are also true.”
“Hardly the grand destiny he painted it to be,” Kasraman said bitterly. “There is no mention of this Thrice Awakened? Nothing we can act against?”
“No.”
“Why are you talking about me? What happened to me?” Corajidin asked, yet the words were a mumble in his ears as he drifted into darkness.
Corajidin woke to a pavilion saturated by daylight. He blinked against the glare. The right side of his face felt strange, as if it belonged to somebody else. Right arm in a sling, wrapped in bandages from elbow to the swaddled club where his fingers would be. The skin itched abominably around a lingering numbness.
Mēdēya woke beside him. She brushed his hair away from his face with her fingers, then tiptoed across the rugs to the tent flap, and said to persons unseen that Corajidin was awake. Mēdēya returned to Corajidin’s side with Kasraman, Wolfram, Feyd, and Tahj-Shaheh following. Corajidin’s inner circle wore grim expressions as they stood in a loose semicircle around his bed.
“Are you in pain, Jidi?” Mēdēya asked solicitously. “Do you need more lotus milk?”
“I am well for now,” Corajidin replied. He gestured to the bandage on his face and to his arm. “What happened to me and how long have I been confined to my bed?”
“What do you remember?” Wolfram asked.
“We had gone to the Tyr-Jahavān…” Recollection flashed in his mind, disjointed pieces of a puzzle whose edges did not fit together properly: Faces rose and fell, arms waved madly. Screams, shouts, wails, curses, and condemnations. The smell of blood. The flash of weapons the need to escape. Fight or flight meant flight. The wind-skiff bobbing in the free air the flash of a blade—
Corajidin choked on his own sob. He looked at the bandage club of his arm. From the elbow down his arm felt like … “Where is my hand, Wolfram?” Corajidin’s voice rose to a shriek. “Where, by all the names of the dead, is my damned hand?”
“Asrahn, please—
“No!” Memory sizzled again. Martūm dead and good riddance, but his sister … that cursed woman who thrust her blade into Corajidin’s eye and dogged him stabbed him sliced him as he tried to run and she tumbled with him—“Where is Vahineh?” he yelled.
“Vahineh is dead, Jidi!” Mēdēya gloated. “Shame it was not done at my hands, but the result is the same. She who ended my first life has run the course of her own.”
“Small comfort to me, Mēdēya!” Corajidin trembled with anger. Pain lengthened in him as his temper shortened. “Get out. All of you. Out. Now.”
Corajidin struggled from bed. He took a knife and cut the bandages loose from his right arm. When the knife twisted on what was underneath, Corajidin tore at it with his left hand, with his teeth, shredding the bandages till they hung in tatters. He sat down hard. Jaw slack.
From a handspan below his right elbow, his arm was encased in blackened kirion. Were it not a grotesque prosthetic, Corajidin would have admired the artistry in the delicate arabesque engraving and the bands of galloping horses. Where his fist would have been was a horsehead chased in red gold and blackened gold. In dim light one could be forgiven for thinking it was a closed fist—a fist Corajidin would never open, the horse’s carved mouth never capable of gripping anything. He lifted the mockery of a limb, noted it was not as heavy as it looked, until he slammed it down on the table and dented the wood. With care born of near hysteria, he removed the bandages from his face to reveal the angry red scarring, missing eyelid, and the orb of polished kirion that shone red, blue, green, or purple as he turned his head.
Corajidin was reminded of Thufan, his former Master of Assassins, who had died a traitor, driven mad by the death of his son and the wounds inflicted on him by Indris. Roshana had taken Corajidin’s hand. Vahineh his eye. Retribution for the fathers Corajidin had taken from them. Yet unlike Ariskander and Vashne, Corajidin had survived.
Such was a good thing, for dead men rarely took any meaningful vengeance.
With gritted teeth, he struggled into a tunic and formal robe, after the abject failure of trying to buckle his trousers. He was tempted to call for Mēdēya to help him dress, but his face burned with shame at his infirmity. A sash was out of the question, so Corajidin cinched his robe with a belt before he donned his over-robe. The mirror told no lies: He was a hideous mockery of the man he had been. The sleeve of his over-robe went some way to masking his amputated hand, though there was nothing to be done about his eye. An eye patch would mask the damage, though it would also admit Corajidin was ashamed—something he was too proud to do. The ruination of his body, first with his illness, now with his disfigurement, marked him as a survivor. It was how he would have the world see him, despite the tears he wiped away from his one good eye.
Corajidin strode from his pavilion with as much pride as he could muster. Mēdēya waited outside, and stood straighter as he emerged into the light of day. To her credit she did not flinch when he glared at her. Corajidin strode past her as he made his way to the command pavilion. It was the largest pavilion in camp, bustling with senior officers, their adjutants, and couriers. Iphyri patrolled the camp with their Jhé-Erebon, armed and armored. Wind-ships hovered low in the sky, hulls lit by flashes of arcane lightning.
Corajidin noted those among his officers who reacted to his injuries, mostly junior officers, relatives of the sayfs seeking advancement. Feyd rested his eyes on Corajidin for a few seconds but his face betrayed nothing. Tahj-Shaheh gave his wounds barely a glance, so intent was she on a thumb-high sheaf of reports. Feyd pointed a well-used long-knife to places on the map.
“The Wives of the Stallion were on a long patrol to the south, and noted a force coming through the woods that run along the northern foothills of the Mar Silin. They did not engage. As best they could tell it is a small force, mounted warriors, and some animals of war, keeping to the woods to mask their passage. The Wives estimate somewhere between fifty and one hundred all told.”
“Pashreans?” The memory of a dream flashed in Corajidin’s mind, of Nomads in
the phantom armor of the Awakened Empire, boiling like mist.
“We don’t know enough about Pashrean forces to make a judgment.”
“Send the Jhé-Erebon back,” Corajidin muttered. “They are to take a witch with them so we can learn instantly what they know. An attack from the south is not something we had planned for.”
“There’s more. I’ve a witch in Beyjan and another in Amnon, spies hidden among the staff of Teymoud’s merchants. The Rōmarqim are on the move. Heavier units are traveling the Southern Trade Road, and by ship up the Anqorat. Lighter units are using the Fandra Road, from Beyjan. They’ll doubtless collect other Rōmarqim units as they progress, from Ifqe and the smaller towns. I’d expect to face armies approaching from the river, the roads, and out of the wetlands itself.”
“Your recommendation?”
“Asrahn, we’re not experts in wetlands fighting. Our troops are more heavily armored, and we’ve a sizable force of cavalry, and the Iphyri. I suggest we withdraw from the wetlands and prepare on solid ground that is more to our advantage. Fortify Fandra and leave a mobile force here at the compound. We can install the siege weapons the College of Artificers has provided, and use the storm-cannon on the wind-ships as mobile artillery.”
“Very well. However, I will not abandon the Rōmarq and its treasures lightly.” Corajidin calculated speeds and distances in his head. An army could only effectively move at the speed of its slowest units. “How long until the enemy arrives?”
“Twenty days?” Feyd surmised. “Perhaps less. Were I them, I’d send light infantry on ahead to harass us as much as possible. I’d also try and stop our work in the ruins, and claim anything I could for my own war effort. They may even be in the vicinity.”
“Who are we likely to face?” Mēdēya scrutinized the map.
“The Great House of Bey for a certainty,” Tahj-Shaheh said. The corsair took a sip of her coffee and grimaced. She tossed the dregs into the tramped earth. “Reports have confirmed that Siamak and his son, Harish, are in now Avānweh. They’ve some quick flyers there that will get them here in time for the ruckus. Indera, the Poet Master of the Marmûn-sûk, has command of the armies, but Knight-General Maselane—Roshana’s Master of Arms—is on his way to join her, along with the Lion Guard, Roshana’s Whitehorse Cataphracts, and Bensaharēn’s warrior-poets. I’d not be surprised to see more of the Näsarat’s colors join in. The Sûn are too far away to add value, and we’ve all the Selassin colors we’re likely to get, now there’s nobody left to lead them. Indeed, we lose what we have.”
“Have our own people take command of the Selassin wind-ships, and other units,” Corajidin ordered. “I’ll not lose them to any qualms of conscience now.”
“How accurate is our intelligence from Avānweh?” Mēdēya asked.
“It’s reliable. Nix remained behind,” Kasraman said, arriving with Wolfram and Ikedion, the walrus-like Atrean now in command of the witches, in tow. “He’s using the ban-kherife to nullify as many of your influential opponents as possible, and the huqdi, Erebus forces, and the Soul Traders to—”
“I thought I was clear that we’d not assist the Soul Traders!” Corajidin snapped. “We’ll not hinder them, but we’re not to engage them.”
“Nix has a relationship with them, through his father, Rayz.” Kasraman’s lips quirked in a smile at Corajidin’s expression. “The longer our enemies are embattled, confused, and busy with the chaos we create, the less time they have to act against us.”
“Tell Nix to cease all engagements with them, or he’ll soon find himself without colors to fly!” Corajidin went to point at the map, saw the blunt head of his prosthetic, and rather than change hands, thumped the thing on the map near the Lakes of the Sky. “Do we still have Erebus forces in Avānweh?”
“We do,” Feyd said. “They’ve gone to ground for now, to avoid capture, and await orders. There are also another thousand or so of my Jiharim in the mountains to the north of Avānweh. We’re expecting Rahn-Narseh’s heavy infantry to arrive within days.”
“Those forces can be used to take and hold Avānweh.” Corajidin saw doubt in the glances his inner circle gave him, and each other. “Our objective remains the same: a Shrīan united for war, under one leader. This conflict was always going to happen, and now we can control when it does.”
“If there’s the need, the Mahsojhin witches, Wolfram, and I can ferry troops through the Drear,” Kasraman offered.
Wolfram shook his head. “It’s folly. We’ve used the Drear too much as it is and the things that dwell in it—things that have slumbered long, and by the grace of the spirits I hold dear, should have slumbered until after I’m rotting in the ground—are aware of us. Belamandris and Sanojé spoke out—”
“Both of whom are missing,” Kasraman interjected.
“Who knows how far Belamandris’s discontent has spread?” Mēdēya asked. “These, witch, are the voices you hold up as reasonable arguments to not use the Drear?”
“Mēdēya speaks true,” Corajidin said. “There has been no word of Belamandris, or Mariam. Tamerlan has gone silent, and there has been no word of the Emissary. There is much we do not know, but much we need to do. Wolfram, we will use the Drear if we need to, and that is an end to it. Am I understood?”
“Of course, Asrahn.”
“Very well,” Corajidin said. “Wolfram and Ikedion, you will take what witches you need to get the Havoc Chair moved here and get it working. The same applies to any other weapons you have found. I also want everything you can take catalogued, crated, and shipped out. Sedefke’s writings are in those ruins, I know it! Find them, no matter the cost. Go now. I will be more comfortable knowing our new weapons are in place and working well before the battle lines are drawn.”
“Asrahn.” Wolfram limped away, his staff sinking into the sodden earth with every other step. Ikedion waddled after, his sumptuous silk robes dragging in the mud. Corajidin pointed to Tahj-Shaheh.
“Crew the faster, smaller wind-ships with your better corsairs. And have a witch aboard each one. They are to keep an eye on the enemy advance both by river and by road. Send squads to patrol the marshlands and the rivers, also. The Rōmarqim do not have the same fear of the marshlands we do. They will also travel it faster. Let us not be surprised by their early arrival. Report back every four hours, no exceptions.”
Corajidin scowled at the map. Fandra was good ground to defend, surrounded by the wetlands on three sides with access by river and two relatively narrow roads. Not enough solid ground for the Federationists, and whatever allies they had with them, to mount an effective siege. Their siege weapons would be airborne, and Tahj-Shaheh could take the fight to them long before they reached Fandra. Siamak’s Rōmarqim would make good time regardless of how they approached, and Corajidin doubted they would make much use of the roads or river once they came close. Knight-General Maselane would likely use the marsh-knights in small squads, to cause as much damage as possible before the main force arrived. They would need to be stopped by those who knew the marshlands as well as they did.
“Kasraman? Speak with Kimiya. I want her people to harass the Rōmarqim at every turn. Slow them down, cull their numbers, whatever her people can do.”
“Of course, Father.” Kasraman chewed his lip in thought. “We could go further. The Malegangers hold sway across other races in the Rōmarq. The Fenlings, reedwives—”
“I have allowed myself to come to terms with Kimiya’s folk, son. I will not have us treat with the other animals that live in this festering hole. Alliances now may prove inconvenient for us later on.”
“As you wish. I’ll speak with her.”
Kasraman strolled from the tent. Corajidin wondered at the casual indifference with which his heir dealt with such monsters. What alliances will you make after I am gone, Kasraman? It was the kind of thing Corajidin’s father, and the Dowager-Asrahn, would have done: They had not scrupled against using whomever, or whatever, was at their disposal to achieve their ends. Corajid
in admitted to a level of ruthlessness: His soul was not without stain; the crimes in his closet made it hard to close the doors. Yet there were limits to the alliances he and Thufan had made in their time. No less red-handed, nor prone to acts of cruelty should the moment call for it, yet … cleaner. More comprehensible than the creatures Kasraman consorted with. Feyd and Tahj-Shaheh were people Corajidin could relate to, people of exoteric action, and thought that could be clearly understood.
“Feyd?” Corajidin said to his Master of Arms. “Have one of the witches try to communicate with Tamerlan again. If they get no response, order as many squads of soldiers as you think best through the Drear, and find out what happened. I would have Jhem and Nadir at my side for what we’re about to face, as well as Belamandris. Advice from those of a more secular bent would be advantageous to me.”
“Your will, Asrahn.” Feyd remained at Corajidin’s side, delegating the mission to one of his Jiharim captains.
“Once you start this fight, Jidi, the options for trade conquest the merchants have advocated will be harder to achieve.” Mēdēya held up her hands to forestall Corajidin’s protest. “I’m not disagreeing with you, my love. Once we’re at war, trade will effectively grind to a halt. We’ve marched together on this road and I believe that the Avān should return to conquest by steel, not conquest by gold. But the point needs to be made that Teymoud and his political allies will be harder to deal with after this.”
“Feyd? Tahj-Shaheh?” The two commanders glanced at Corajidin as he called them by name. “Tell me honestly. Can you defeat our enemies when they come for us here?”
“From everything we know about the forces against us, yes,” Feyd said. Tahj-Shaheh nodded her agreement.
“Then I care little for what Teymoud and his peddlers think, say, or do. We will crush our enemies in the open, and the people of Shrīan will fall in line behind us when we continue south to destroy Pashrea.” Corajidin gazed at the map and smiled. “The Emissary was right about one thing. There can be only one Mahj.”
The Pillars of Sand Page 31
